I unlock absently closed doors with leaden fingers. Confused surprise written on my face at the sound of gentle knocking. My is feels packed full of the cotton of anonymity. Closed doors are my triage against memories.
Still. It's nice having visitors. Familiar strangers set my ego at ease. The swelling behind my eyes isn't malignancy; it's appreciation.
I relate to my voyeurs with the painful satisfaction of picking a scab. Complicity of authors?
I didn't understand the shared camaraderie of ink spills and flesh wounds until recently.
♥
9:15 p.m. - 2015-03-19
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